


Chicken Noodle Soup

by migratoryslashfan



Series: Chicken Soup for the Undead Werewolf Soul [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Carrying, Chicken Soup, Episode Tag, Episode: s03e12 Lunar Ellipse, Good Peter Hale, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sick Stiles, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4264164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/migratoryslashfan/pseuds/migratoryslashfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is sick after the ritual sacrifice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicken Noodle Soup

**Author's Note:**

> There's a "Carrying" tag?!? Why have I never discovered this before....?

Stiles wrapped the blanket tighter around himself as he trudged down the stairs, his feet making heavy footfalls with each step. He felt like crap, knew he must look like crap, and really wondered who in the hell would be at his door right now that he shouldn't just ignore them altogether, but his curiosity mixed with the incessant buzzing of the doorbell got him out of bed and moving. He fumbled for the handrail as he felt himself listing toward the wall, and when he finally opened the door, he really wished he hadn't been so damn curious at all.

"Hello, Stiles," Peter greeted him.

"What do you want?" Stiles leaned against the door even as he shot Peter a withering glare.

"Well, I heard you were a bit under the weather after the... _ritual sacrifice_ , and I thought I'd check up on you," Peter replied.

"Did Derek send you?"

"No, I sent myself."

"Why?"

"Well," Peter cleared his throat. "I was concerned."

"Sure you were," Stiles said. "Go away."

He tried to shut the door in Peter's face but Peter palmed the door, holding it open.

"Listen to me, Stiles," he said calmly. "The ritual Deaton had you perform is serious; lots of things could have gone wrong. Scott's doing fine, of course, and Allison too, which is somewhat surprising to me, but you didn't bounce back quite as well as I'd have liked."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Seriously. What do you care?"

"And with Deaton otherwise occupied and Morrell in the hospital," Peter said, ignoring Stiles' sass, "I'm the next best thing there is to making sure you're actually all right." On the last few words, Peter's voice went from a condescending "Let me explain this like you're five" to a sincere concern that even Stiles didn't think Peter capable of faking.

Stiles sighed. Peter wasn't going away easily, and if he was seriously that fraught over Stiles' welfare, then Stiles could certainly use that to his advantage. "Fine," he said, standing aside and gesturing for Peter to enter his home. "Come in if you're going to."

Peter stepped inside cautiously, as if the house itself might bite him. He kept his eyes on Stiles as he shut the door, then followed as Stiles led him into the kitchen.

"If you're really that concerned about me," Stiles said, opening a cabinet and pulling down a can from the bottom shelf, "prove it."

He tossed the can at Peter, who caught it deftly and eyed it with skepticism. "Chicken noodle soup?"

"Yeah," Stiles said, scoffing. "It's what humans eat when they're sick."

Peter set the can on the counter and removed his blazer, draping it over one of the dining chairs. "Very well."

"Pots are in the cabinet by the stove," Stiles said. He pulled out a stool at the end of the island and started to sit.

"Why don't you go back to bed, and I'll bring it up when it's ready?" Peter asked.

Stiles paused halfway to sitting and stared at Peter.

Peter sighed. "You can barely stand."

"Yeah, okay," Stiles said, pushing the chair back in. "Just don't go--" Stiles stopped himself. He was about to tell Peter not to burn the house down, but he figured that might be cutting it too close to old wounds. Instead he just shook his head.

"Just don't what?" Peter asked, eyebrows furrowed.

"Don't make a mess," Stiles said and hurried up the stairs to his room.

 

*****

 

Stiles had to admit, he was glad to be back in his bed, but he wondered if he shouldn't be keeping an eye on the undead werewolf he'd left behind in his kitchen. He didn't exactly trust Peter not to do _something_ that would make Stiles regret even letting him in the house, but then he was also too wiped out to give it much more than superficial consideration.

He was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

When he woke up, his room a little darker, a glance at the clock told him he'd slept three hours. He tried to remember what he'd been doing before he fell asleep, tried to remember the thing he'd been waiting for, and then he had a random thought that reminded him what it was: _It doesn't take three hours to make soup_.

Upon thinking this he remembered leaving Peter downstairs and thought maybe the werewolf had just booked it, whatever little plan he'd devised on the way there being moot since Stiles wasn't going to put up with any of his bullshit.

But he made his way to his bedroom door anyway, and as soon as he cracked it, the aroma of a heavenly meal wafted up to his barely-working nostrils.

"Damn," Stiles muttered. If Peter could make canned chicken soup smell _that_ good, he might have to keep him around and have him cook more often.

Cautiously poking his head into the kitchen, Stiles felt his eyes widen as he took in the cornucopia of fresh vegetables laid out on the island. The remains of a whole chicken sat, trussed up and steaming, in an aluminum pan on the counter to the left of the sink. A good portion of the chicken had been cut away.

"What's all this?" Stiles asked, relishing in the half-jump from Peter as he turned to see Stiles behind him.

"You shouldn't sneak up on people, Stiles," Peter said, brandishing a wooden spoon as if it were a paddle. "It isn't polite."

"What are you doing to my kitchen?" Stiles asked. "I mean, it smells great and all." He tugged on the bar stool and sat down this time, not waiting for Peter to object again. "And where did all this food come from?"

"When you went upstairs," Peter started, turning to stir a pot on the stove, "I contemplated actually opening that can of processed soup and preparing it for you. Then I marched right up to your room, gave a soft knock, and asked you through your door if you'd rather have something a little more... fresh."

"Let me guess: I was already asleep by then."

"Exactly," Peter said. "So I figured, since you'd probably be out for a while, I could go get fresh ingredients, and when I was finished I'd come wake you."

"Too late," Stiles said, shrugging.

"But very close," Peter said. "A few more minutes, and I would've had this spooned into a bowl, set on a tray, and carried right up to you."

Stiles raised his eyebrows at him.

"Just like I promised," Peter added.

"Okay," Stiles said, nodding. "Why though?"

"Why what?"

"Why go through all this trouble for me?"

Peter mumbled something as he turned his back to Stiles, stirring the pot once again.

"You poisoned it, didn't you?"

"Of course not, Stiles," Peter said. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Of course not," Stiles repeated, under his breath. "I mean, it's not like you've ever given me a reason to distrust you. Or to expect you to have some sort of agenda. Or to kill people for no reason."

Peter said nothing in response, but Stiles noticed his hand slow as he moved the spoon in its circular motion.

The kitchen fell silent at that, and Stiles just watched Peter work, until the soup was finally done and being ladled out into a bowl set in front of him. 

Peter waited, anticipation clear on his face, as Stiles spooned up his first taste of the soup. As the perfect mix of flavor hit his tongue, he couldn't help shutting his eyes as a moan escaped him.

"Oh, my god," Stiles mumbled around the soup. After swallowing, he added, "Why have you never cooked for me before?"

Peter's shoulders relaxed at the exclamations, and he hid a small smile, ducking his head.

"I'm glad you like it," Peter replied, voice calm and cool.

"Like it?" Stiles tugged at the retreating werewolf, snagging a hand around his wrist and pulling him back. "I _love_ it."

The pull on his wrist sent Peter spinning back towards Stiles, just as Stiles was standing to embrace him. It was meant to be a hug, a gesture of gratitude, but Peter sort of clashed into Stiles, who hadn't properly calculated his own movements in conjunction with Peter's, and they ended up almost nose-to-nose, lips barely touching for a second, Stiles then tripping backwards in a panicked retreat and Peter catching him before he fell to the floor in his hurry.

The near-fall and being held up by Peter caused Stiles to freeze. He stared wide-eyed at Peter, waiting for him to let go or make a move-- _something_. And _holy shit_ , why was _make a move_ part of those options?

"Maybe I should take this upstairs for you," Peter suggested. "You shouldn't be up right now."

Stiles felt his shoulders sag with disappointment and then his brain was fried. Why was he disappointed by this? What the hell was wrong with him all of a sudden?

Swallowing to wet his now-dry throat, Stiles could only nod and say, "Yeah, good call."

"If you'd like," Peter said quietly, eyes unwavering despite the barest hint of a crack in his voice, "I could carry you up?"

Stiles lost all ability to speak at that, his stomach flip-flopping at the mere idea of being held in Peter's strong arms. He silently cursed his brain for not alerting him to this attraction sooner, like, say, when he could convince himself it didn't exist in preparation for moments such as this, when he was all but powerless to say no to the heartfelt look in Peter Hale's eyes.

 _Peter Hale has feelings for me,_ he told himself. _Holy fucking shit._

"Uhh," Stiles finally managed to say, "yeah, I think... think that'd be good."

When Peter moved closer to him, letting Stiles lean against him, Stiles realized that yes, he probably should be back in bed. He felt too heavy again, the way he had when he'd first come down to find Peter standing on his front porch. If he didn't already feel so weak and shaky from being sick, he might have been more afraid he'd do something stupid once Peter got him up to his room, but as it was, he ended up laying his head on Peter's shoulder and closing his eyes, letting Peter carry his weight as he held tight to him.

He started to worry he'd fall asleep again before he could finish that soup.

"Don't forget the soup," Stiles said when Peter set him gently on the bed.

"Do you want anything else while I'm downstairs?" Peter asked.

Stiles shook his head, a movement he regretted immediately as his head began to swim.

"I'll be right back," Peter said.

Stiles had a moment to himself to consider this new situation; Peter Hale, big bad scary zombie wolf, was attracted to him. He should probably feel a little more trepidation over this than he did, especially considering all the times he'd told Scott how much he hated the former alpha werewolf. Of course, he'd known Peter liked him, ever since he offered Stiles the bite. But the fact that he _like_ -liked him? Well, that was new territory.

Then there was the fact that Stiles apparently like-liked him back.

Fucking hell.

Peter returned a couple minutes later with the soup on a tray, as promised, saltines and a bottle of water on the side. It still smelled as good as when Stiles first opened his bedroom door to it. Peter set the tray over Stiles' legs and retreated before Stiles could speak.

"I'll just clean up," Peter said in the doorway.

"When you're done with that..." Stiles started, but he shut his mouth before finishing the sentence, shoveling a spoonful of soup into his mouth.

Peter waffled in the doorway, obviously hopeful, but hesitant, most likely because he still saw Stiles as a boy, as a _child_ , and the thought of Peter seeing him that way made Stiles' decision for him. The sinfully delicious food he'd just eaten also helped.

"Come back up when you're done?" Stiles asked.

"Any particular reason why?" Peter asked.

Stiles glanced around his room, thinking desperately of what he could say to get Peter to convince himself it was okay to stay. His eyes grazed over his bookshelf, then he turned sharply back to Peter.

"Read to me?" he offered.

Peter nodded. This was an acceptable reason. "And if you're asleep?" he asked.

Stiles bit his lower lip, hard enough he feared he might draw blood.

"Watch over me?"

Peter's head dipped down, and he nodded again. "I can do that."

The door softly clicked shut as Peter left the room, and Stiles strained to hear his soft footfalls on the carpeted stairs until his human hearing gave out on him. Returning to the soup, Stiles saw that he'd bunched his blanket in his hand underneath the tray. He shook his hand out and placed his full focus on the chicken noodle soup, occasionally pausing to listen when the noise in the kitchen was loud enough for him to hear.

Once done, he gingerly escaped his bed in order to move the tray to the floor, then padded across the hall to the bathroom. He hoped to find Peter coming up the stairs when he was done, but that didn't happen. In fact, when he exited the bathroom, Stiles didn't hear a sound in the kitchen. Creeping back to bed, he buried his face, along with his disappointment, into his pillow and tried to sleep.

Stiles was nearing dreams when the squeak of his door handle echoed into the room. He raised his head, thinking his dad must've come home early or something, and narrowed his eyes at the sliver of light glowing behind the figure in his doorway.

"Dad?"

"I didn't mean to wake you," the figure replied, and it took a minute for Stiles to realize it was Peter.

"I wasn't really asleep," Stiles said, hoping that Peter didn't flee because Stiles had mistaken him for the Sheriff.

"Still want me to read to you?"

"Not really," Stiles said, holding his hand out for Peter before the wolf thought he wanted him to leave.

Peter shut the door and took Stiles' hand, following his guidance onto the bed beside him. Stiles turned so his back was to Peter, pulling Peter's hand so his arm wrapped around him.

They settled into their position slowly, feeding off the caution in each other's bodies from their tensely held positions. Stiles wished he knew what was going through Peter's mind right then, but he was too afraid to ask, figuring Peter would lie, even more afraid that Peter would tell the truth.

Finally, Peter's hand shifted lower, resting atop Stiles' full belly, and his thumb moved in small circles. The movement seemed to be the first natural one between them since Peter had laid down on the bed, and it triggered a reaction in Stiles, who relaxed a little in Peter's arms and hummed in contentment.

"You liked feeding me," Stiles noted. He put his own hand over Peter's to keep it in place, just in case his words sounded like an accusation rather than the acknowledgement of genuine affection Stiles meant them to be.

Peter said nothing, but he didn't pull away either. Instead, his only response was a soft press of lips to the nape of Stiles' neck, followed by a gentle nuzzling into the junction of Stiles' neck and shoulders.

Stiles slept soundly that night, as did Peter; for both of them, it was the first time in years.


End file.
